XVIII.--MATTERS FINANCIAL
The young manager of the local bank through which Clark transacted hisaffairs sat late one night in his office. He had just returned fromdinner at the big house, where he left his host in an unusually genialand communicative mood. It seemed that Clark's mind, tightened withthe continued strain of years, had wished to slacken itself in an houror two of utter candor, and Brewster had listened with fullconsciousness that this was an occasion which might never be repeated.But in his small cubicle, walled in with opaque glass, Clark's magneticaccents appeared to dwindle before the inexorable character of thestatement Brewster now scrutinized. It was the detailed and financialhistory of each successive company, a history in which birth and bonesand articulation were clearly set forth, and what struck the young manmost forcibly was the extraordinary way in which each was interlinkedwith the rest. The combined capital of all was, he noted, twenty-sevenmillion dollars, and greater than that yet reached by the CanadianPacific Railway. Brewster had known it before, but the bald andcumulative figures in front of him made the fact the more momentous.
Probing still deeper, it became apparent that while the pulp mills madesteady profits, these were so adjusted as to form but one link in achain. In all there were some ten companies, each drawing from theothers its business and its surplus. Clark had not been far wrong whenhe reflected that he might be asking one dollar to do too much, and nowthe sharp brain of the young manager was coming to the same conclusion.Behind his office building passed Clark's steamships, for there was atransportation company, and into the wilderness Clark's trains plungedwith unfailing regularity. Up at the works the blast furnaces werevomiting flame and smoke, and the rail mill was nearly completed.Baudette was sending down train loads and rafts of wood, and at theiron mine dynamite was lifting thousands of tons of ore. The entireaggregation of effort and expenditure had been so systematicallyinterwoven that Brewster there and then decided that if one link in thechain should part, the whole fabric of the thing would dissolve. Itwas true that he made no advances without authority from hisheadquarters, but he had long been aware that Clark's was the largestcommercial account in Canada and, he reflected gravely, it all wentthrough his own office. Two days later he reached Toronto, and askedaudience of his general manager.
Now since this record is partly that of the relative standing ofdifferent individuals in the development of a little known district,consider Brewster in consultation with Thorpe, the general manager ofhis great bank. Brewster was young, active, in close touch with Clarkand his enterprises, enthusiastic, yet touched with a certain power ofquick and ruthless decision. He had been interested and even thrilledby the doings at St. Marys, but he had never yielded himself completelyto Clark's mesmeric influence. Thorpe, a much older man and of notedexecutive ability, was one of those who by that noted address at theBoard of Trade had been rooted out of long standing indifference andimbued with surprised confidence, and this translation, so rapid in itsmovements, still survived. In consequence, he listened to the youngerman with a thinly veiled incredulity.
"I can't quite see it," he said thoughtfully, "even from your ownaccount. It's probably the proportions of the thing that makes youanxious."
Brewster shook his head. "No, it isn't that. There's a big powerhouse on the American side and it didn't earn a cent for a year,something wrong with the foundations, though it's all right now.There's the sulphur extraction plant that doesn't extract sulphur,and--"
"What?" interrupted Thorpe. He, like others, had read of the newprocess with keen interest, and was anxious to learn details.
"It worked in the laboratory but not on a commercial basis. Belding,the chief engineer, is all cut up about it. Consequence is Clark isbuying sulphur, and just now pulp prices are so low he's not makinganything out of it."
"Have you seen Wimperley lately?"
"He was up with Birch a week or so ago."
"Say anything particular?"
Brewster smiled reflectively. "He didn't seem to want to talk."
"What are the obligations?" asked Thorpe after a little pause.
"Of all companies?"
"Of course."
"About two millions as nearly as I can get at them."
"And to us?"
Brewster handed over a slip of paper. "This is a copy of what Iforwarded yesterday."
The older man's brows cleared a little. The combined overdraft wasjust over a hundred thousand, against which the bank held Philadelphiaacceptances which he knew would be met. He glanced over the statementagain.
"You've looked after this extremely well. Now what do you want me todo?"
Brewster drew a long breath. "I don't want you to take my word foranything, but come up and see for yourself. Go into the woods and upto the mines and through the entire works--then come to your ownconclusions. It may be I'm too near the thing to get the rightperspective, but I give it to you as I see it."
Thorpe nodded. "I know you have and your branch has done extremelywell."
"Thanks." Brewster laughed. "That's due to the man we're talkingabout."
"And supposing," put in Thorpe thoughtfully, "supposing the whole thingwere to go smash! What would you say?"
The other man's eyes rounded a little. "I'd say," he answered slowly,"that even in that case the entire district would be in Clark's debt."
"Yes?"
"Because they know what's in the country now and how to get it out--andthey never knew that before."
"And the immediate future--what do you see that depends on?"
"Steel rails," said Brewster with conviction. "Will you come up?"
Thorpe did go up, and Clark, who knew that Brewster had been in Torontoand conceived why, met them both at the works with a genuine welcome.He felt, nevertheless, that his undertakings were to be analyzed withcold deliberation.
At the end of two days Thorpe had seen them all--had peered into thegray black bowels of the iron mine, watched Baudette denuding theslopes of a multitude of hills--seen the stamps in the gold millhammering out the precious particles that were caught by greatquicksilver plates,--seen booms and train loads of pulp on their way toSt. Marys--seen the white spruce shaven of its brown bark and groundand sheeted and loaded into the gaping holds of Clark'ssteamships--seen the blast furnaces vomit their molten metal--seen therhythmic pumps and dynamos send water and light through every artery ofthe young city--seen the veneer mills ripping out flexible miles oftheir satiny wood--seen the power house on the American side makingcarbide to the low rumble of thousands of horsepower, and seen theelectric railway that linked Ironville with St. Marys. And all thetime Clark had put forward neither arguments in his own favor nor anyrequest for credit, but only allowed these things to speak forthemselves, till, as the aggregate became more and more rounded and thepicture more complete, Thorpe perceived that here was something whichinitiated by an extraordinary brain had now grown to such vastproportions that it supplied its own momentum, and must of necessitymove on to its appointed and final result.
But Clark did not distinguish in either Thorpe or Brewster anydetermining factor of his future. They would do what they were meantto do, and play the game as the master of the game decided. They mightmodify, but they would never create. His mind was pitched so far aheadthat it was beside the mark to attempt to influence men who, heconceived, were not themselves endowed with any prophetic vision. Hehad to deal with them and he dealt with them, and though he wonderedmutely at their abiding sense of the present and their apparent lack offaith in the inevitable future, he descended from the heights of hisown imagination and parleyed in the bald and merciless language ofstrictly commercial affairs.
It was at the end of his visit that Thorpe asked about the sulphurplant.
Clark glanced at him curiously. The sulphur plant was so small afraction of the whole.
"There's a certain step in the process we have not perfected--that'sall. You don't believe in economic waste, do you?"
"No,
certainly not--if avoidable."
"Well, I'm satisfied that this is avoidable. It is just as much amistake to allow water to run away when it might be grinding pulp, asit is to drive sulphur into the air instead of catching and selling it.You pollute the air, you kill the trees, you spend a lot of money, andyou waste the sulphur. Nature has a lot of processes up her sleevewe've not realized as yet. This is one of them."
"Then this plant is a mistake?" Thorpe got it out with some hesitation.
Clark laughed. "Some of it--so far. I make plenty of mistakes, don'tyou? It seems to me it's the proportion his mistakes bear to thethings that succeed which determines a man's usefulness. I don'tbelieve in the one who doesn't make them."
Thorpe grinned in spite of himself. "Perhaps you're right--but I'll beglad to know as soon as you're rolling rails. When do you expect that?"
"In six months at the latest. I'll send you a section of the firstone."
The banker drove toward the station in unaccustomed silence. Presentlyhe turned to Brewster. "You were right and, by George! Clark is righttoo, but we must not get our mutual rectitude mixed up. He's got to goahead, come what may, and we've got to help him all we reasonably can,but with us our shareholders come before his. That's the point. Hemay turn out to be a private liability, but in any case he's a nationalasset. I want a bit of that first rail. Good-by!"
And Clark, after waving farewell at the big gates of the works, hadgone into the rail mill and stood in the shadow in deep contemplation.He glanced at the massive flywheel, the great dominant dynamo and thehuge, inflexible rolls. At one end were the heating furnaces, theirdoors open, and gentle fires glowing softly within to slowly raise thetemperature of newly set brick. Around him was the swing of workdirected by skilled brains, and machinery moved slowly into itsappointed place of service. It was a good mill, he reflected, for asecond hand mill. For all of this the place was dead--awaiting thepulse of power and the unremitting supply of incandescent metal.Glancing keenly about, he experienced again that strange sound asthough between his temples, and suddenly he felt tired. The thing wasgood, very good. But he too wanted to see the lambent metal spewedfrom between the shining rolls.
It was a notable day in St. Marys when the first rail was actuallyrolled, and symbolical to many people of many different things.Infection spread from the words to the town, till all morning there wasa trickling stream of humanity that filed in at the big gates and movedon toward the dull roar of the mill. Even though the mass of folk inSt. Marys still failed to grasp the full significance of the event,they saw in it that which put their one time Arcadia beside Pittsburg,and invested their own persons with a new sense of importance.
Clark, watching the fruition of a seven year dream, felt thrilled asnever before. Here, in this heat and mechanical tumult, was beingforged the last link in the chain into which he had hammered his entirestrength and spirit. It was a good thing, he reflected, to make pulpand ship it on his own steamships, but this was the biggest, deepestand most enduring thing of all. Some men at such a moment would havefelt humble, but he recognized only the unfolding of an elemental dramain which he played his own particular role. A few weeks later heclosed a contract with a great railway company for a million dollars'worth of his new product, which he unhesitatingly guaranteed would liveup to the most exacting specifications.
The new plant had settled down to the steady drive of work when themayor of St. Marys, walking up the street in a mood of peculiarsatisfaction, saw just ahead of him the bulky form of the chiefconstable. He stepped a little faster and laid a detaining hand on thebroad shoulder.
"Arrest yourself for a minute," he chuckled. "How's our town pessimistfeeling this fine morning?"
Manson glanced sideways. "I suppose you want to rub it in. Well, Idon't know that my opinions have changed very much."
"Takes more than a few thousand tons of rails to move you, eh? Butisn't Mahomet going to come to the mountain at last?"
Manson shook his head.
"If he doesn't the mountain will come to Mahomet--and crush him,"continued Filmer gayly, then, his mood changing, "but honestly, oldman, why don't you drop your gloomy views? You've an excellent chanceright now, and, besides, they're getting rather amusing."
"I've a right to my own opinions."
"Naturally, we all have, but you don't act up to them--at least youdidn't."
Manson glowered at him with quick suspicion. "What's that?"
"Your left hand knows what your right hand doeth--every time,--at leastit's so in St. Marys. You're too big to get under a bushel basket.Every one saw that you were dabbling in real estate for years, and madea good clean up, but you seemed so darned ashamed of it that no onecared to discuss it with you. And all the time you were our prizepackage disbeliever. What's the use? It's your own affair, but whydon't you make a lightning change like the man in the circus last week?Your friends would welcome it. You're not the man we used to know."
"If it's my own affair," came back Manson with growing resentment, "whynot leave it at that? Did you never make any money out of a thing youdidn't believe in?"
"Yes," said Filmer slowly, "I have, but after that I believed in it,and said so. It was only fair to the fellow behind it."
Manson went stolidly back to his square stone office, where he took outhis broker's statement for the previous month and stared at itsilently. Already he knew the figures by heart. Another two pointrise in Consolidated stock and he would realize his net profit of onehundred thousand dollars. He ran over his own scribbled figures on theback of the statement, as he had gone over them many times before.They were quite right. For weeks past his selling order had been in,been acknowledged, and now at any moment the thing might be done. Itmight even have already been done. The blood rushed to his head at thethought. How many other chief constables, he wondered, had amassedfortunes from behind their forbidding gray stone walls? Then hethought of his wife and children, and his eyes softened, while thebroker's statement in his big hand trembled ever so slightly. Hesmiled at that, and it came to his mind that perhaps statements inother men's hands sometimes trembled at the thought of their wives andchildren and the fortunes that--and here Manson felt vaguelyuncomfortable and, getting up, slowly locked his desk.
Just at that moment, Filmer, who had returned to his office, wassitting staring at a half-section of steel rail that lay in his hand.It was smooth and highly polished, a thin slice of the very firstproduct of Clark's last and greatest undertaking. He experienced aquite extraordinary sensation at feeling the thing, and it snatched hismind back seven years till again in the Town Hall he heard a magneticvoice assuring the citizens that the town lacked just threeessentials--experience, money and imagination, and that the speakerwould supply them all. It was a far cry from that evening to the deepdrone of the rail mill, and Filmer, detaching himself from the picturein which he formed a part, began now to perceive its dramatic vitality.Were Clark taken out the whole thing seemed to fall to pieces.
And up at the See House, the bishop was examining just such anothersection of rail, while the gold of his episcopal ring shone beside thegray of steel. To him it meant many things, but chiefly it wasprophetic of that which would soon put an end to the detachment andloneliness of the scattered communities to which he ministered.Holding the thing thus, his heart went out to Clark, and he yearnedwith a great longing over the spirit of this man who so reveled in thejoy of creation. His eyes wandered to the Evangeline. She lay atanchor just off shore. A thin film of smoke slid from her funnel, andhe could see the Indian pilot swabbing down her smooth teak decks.Then, in sudden impulse, he smiled and, laying the rail section on topof a half finished sermon, wrote a short note, and, calling his manservant, instructed him to wait for an answer.
A little later the note reached Clark in his office, where he satmotionless under the sway of a slight reaction. At the moment he didnot want to work. He was continuously conscious of ribbons of red hotrails that streamed l
ike fluted snakes from under the gigantic rolls,and they seemed to be boring their way into his brain. He had shippedthousands of tons to the railway company and there were thousands moreto go. In a week or so he would get a formal acceptance of hisproduct, and then-- He stretched himself a little wearily and pressedhis eyes till a red and compelling blur brought its transient solace.And just then his secretary came in with the bishop's note.
Dear Mr. Clark:
I am off this afternoon for a five day cruise of visits amongst theislands of Lake Huron. Won't you come with me? I know it would begood for me and think it might give you what I'm sure is a much neededrest. My Mercury, I mean the hired man, awaits your answer.
Yours faithfully, JAMES, ALGOMA.
P. S. I never attempt to proselytize my guests.
For a moment he puzzled over the signature, and finally made out thatit was the bishop's Christian name followed by that of his diocese, forthis was the first letter he had received from the prelate. Then hefelt a sudden throb of impulse. He had a natural liking for the bishopand this, with his insatiable appetite for new experiences, prompted anacceptance. He touched the bell, and his secretary reappeared.
"I am going away for five days," he paused, adding with a smile--"onmissionary work. I haven't any idea where we are going and don't wantto be disturbed. I'll be back before we receive the results of theUnited Railway Company's tests. That's all."
It was mid-afternoon when the Evangeline, gliding smoothly over thepolished surface of the bay, drew in towards the Consolidated dock, andClark, watching from the shadow of a mountain of bales of pulpassembled for shipment, saw the Indian pilot amidship at the wheel andthe bishop, in a big, coarse, straw hat, standing in the slim bow, acoil of rope in his hands and a broad smile on his big sunburnt face.
"Catch!" The bight of the rope whistled through the air and strucksmartly at his guest's feet.
The latter laughed, picked it up and made fast. It struck him suddenlythat it was curious the bishop should be throwing him a rope. Then hereflected that it was the bishop and not himself who needed help.
The former was very gay, his kindly face alight with amusement andanticipation. Presently came a throb from the engine room, and theEvangeline sheered off down the river, past the new St. Marys wherestaring red brick buildings shouldered up out of the old time houses,past the See Mouse, while a flag fluttered jerkily down from the tallmast at whose top it flew when the bishop was at home, past theAmerican side, where Clark's big power house stretched its gray lengthat the edge of the river, and on till they came to the long point thatcloses the upper reach, and just then both men turned and looked upstream at the vanishing bulk of the huge structures beside the rapids,and the flat line of tremulous foam that marked the rapids themselves.The voice of them was, at this distance, mute.
The yacht glided on and still neither spoke, Clark was full of thethought that, for the second time in seven years, he had deliberatelyleft his work. Four hours ago the thing would have seemed grotesque,but glancing at the bishop's broad back, he realized that here was afriendly interceptor to whom he had been wise to yield. The miles slidsmoothly by, and still neither talked. Each was busy with thecontented reflection that in the other he had found one who possessedthe gift of understanding silence.
The Evangeline rested that evening not far from where Clark hadanchored so recently. He sat motionless, breathing in the welcomebenison of the spot, till the Indian pilot put out port and starboardlamps whose soft red and green shone steadily into the gathering dusk.
"Is there a mission here?" asked the visitor presently.
"No, but there's the best bass fishing in Lake Huron," grunted thebishop placidly, already busy with rods and bait. "The mission is tenmiles on. Now we're going to catch our breakfast--there's an excellentspot just opposite that big cedar."
Clark had not fished much, but he loved it, like most men of intellect,and discovered that he had been steered straight into the best fishinghe had ever known. They were small mouthed bass, deep of belly andhigh of back, and they fought in the brown water over the twitchingminnows that dangled from the Evangeline bow and stern.
"I'm glad you came." The bishop smoothed down the spines of a bigthree pounder ere he gripped it.
"Best thing I ever did. Fishing is a clerical pursuit, isn't it?"
The bishop nodded without turning his head. "Yes, but it's not alwaysfor money. We have to bait our hooks according to the season of men'sminds. By the way, some of my best friends are in your country."
"Yes?"
"Had a church in Chicago for ten years,--there at the time of the greatfire--it stopped a few blocks from my house. I had to marry a devotedcouple a day or two later and the wedding fee was a bunch of candles.Glad to get them; whole city in darkness and it seemed suitable thatthe parson's house should reflect light. You remind me of one of myfriends at that time."
"Why and how?" said Clark. He knew so little of himself as appearingin other people's minds.
"This man was a big Chicago importer--look out, you've got anotherbass--and he was in New York at the time of the fire--heard hiswarehouses were threatened and bought trainloads of stuff and rushed itthrough. It arrived while the other stuff was still smoking, and hemade much more than he-- My dear sir, that's the best fish of theevening, let me look at him."
Clark laid the twitching body of a bass on the teak deck, while the bigman came aft, trailing his bait and slowly reeling up his line. As theminnow glimmered in towards the yacht's black side, there came a heavyplunge, the bishop's rod bent double, and the line sang off his reel.He was a famous fisherman, and Clark watched him admiringly. To everyounce of pliant bamboo on his six ounce rod there was, down in thebrown water, a pound of savagely fighting weight. Deeper went the bigfish and further, but ever the taut line yielded by fractions, and thenearly doubled rod kept up a steady insidious strain. As the bassdashed back, the bishop recovered his nearly spent line while his lipspressed tight and the light of battle shone in his large eyes. For aquarter of an hour the fight lasted, till the great fish flounderedonce or twice with heavy weariness on the surface, and the anglerworked him toward the yacht. Then a bare brown arm shot a landing netunderneath his horny shoulder and, with a dexterous twist, the Indianpilot landed him on the deck in a thumping tangle of line, leader andnet.
"And that," said the bishop with a deep sigh of content, "will do.We've got supper and breakfast as well."
The night deepened, and in the little saloon host and guest sat down toa supper of fried fish, blueberries and cream. The small, red curtainswere drawn, and over the tiny fireplace a binnacle lamp glowed softly.Forward in the bows, the Scotch engineer and the Indian pilot satconversing in deliberate monosyllables, and in the east a horned moonfloated just clear of the ragged tops of encircling pine trees. Clarkate slowly and felt the burden slipping from his shoulders. It was astrange sensation. Across the narrow table towered the bishop, thegenius of the place. He was still reminiscent of American experiencesand talked as talks a man who is comfortably sure of himself and hiscompanion.
"I don't believe I have any very close personal friends," said Clarkpresently. "I've moved about too quickly to make them. One meetspeople in the way of work, and so far as my own employees areconcerned, I see them chiefly through their work. I can't let thepersonal element intrude."
The bishop smiled, remembering something similar he had said himself."Well, I must say I'm particularly drawn to Americans. Perhaps it'sbecause they suit the Irish, but I seem to find in them a certainintellectual generosity one recognizes at once and appreciates. Therearen't so many fences to climb over. And, besides, they appear tounderstand my cloth."
"Yes?" Clark looked up, keenly interested. He had not thought muchabout the clerical profession.
"It's quite true. They realize that a parson is a man of likepredilections and impulses and weaknesses with themselves, and that acassock does not stifle the natural and healthy ambitions
of the malemammal. Nothing is more trying for the cleric than to be put aside asthough he were some emasculated ascetic who was unattracted by merelynatural things."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Very few people have, except the cleric; and he thinks of it a gooddeal. There is even the tendency to believe that the parson, becausehe is a spiritually minded man, is incapable of horse sense inpractical and public affairs. By the way, don't you smoke?"
Clark smiled and shook his head. "I've never wanted to."
"I did once," chuckled the prelate. "It was a big, black cigar insidea hedge about three miles out of Dublin. I've never smoked since.Now, if I may go back to the clerical question, you'll probably realizethat a great many mistakes are made."
"I hadn't thought much about that either."
"Probably not, but it's without question that a good many parsonsrealize in a year or so that they're not up to their job, especially ifit's a city congregation. The young and over enthusiastic rectoraddressing a church full of shrewd, experienced men of affairs is oftenin a grievous case. I've sat in the chancel and listened and writhedmyself. There's many a poor parson who would make a good engineer, andhe knows it."
"Then why shouldn't he change over?" Clark was getting new avenuesopened for him in hitherto unexplored directions.
"Because he's ashamed to, and the world has the habit of thinking thatthe man who has once been a parson is not available for anything else.Suppose one of my missionaries came to you for a job--what wouldhappen?"
"I'd send him to you for a letter of recommendation and then put him towork."
"I believe you would, now, but not a month ago."
"That's quite possible."
"Well, you have no conception that envy may, and sometimes does, existin a black coated breast."
"But why envy?"
"Because devotion to one cause does not stifle natural aspirations inanother. For instance I've often longed for time to do some writing,on my own account. One of my traveling preachers has invented arailway switch and I know he dreams of it and makes sketches on themargin of his sermons. No, my dear sir, the public has doubtlessclassified us, and possibly correctly, but we are still fanciful,and--" the bishop hesitated and broke off.
"Go on, please." Clark's gray eyes were very penetrating andunderstanding.
"Possibly I've talked too much about the parson, but there's one thingthat is often denied him and he longs for it intensely--companionshipwith his fellow men. The sacrifice of that one thing hurts more thanany other privation. And now that this one-sided symposium on theparson must have taxed your good nature, let's go to bed. We liftanchor at seven-thirty, and I go over the side at seven. There'sfifteen feet of water here and a sandy bottom, and if you like we'llget a few more bass first. Good night! I think you'll find everythingyou want in your cabin. Sleep well."
A little later Clark stepped out on deck and breathed in the ineffableserenity of the scene. A ray of moonlight lay along the inlet like asilver line. As he went down to his cabin he noticed that the other'sdoor had swung open. Inside the bishop was kneeling by his narrowbunk, his face buried in his hands, his broad shoulders bent forward inprayer. Clark's breath came a little quickly at the strangeness of itall and, moving on tip toe, he turned the handle softly. In his owncabin, he lay for an hour staring out of the porthole at the dim worldbeyond. He tried to think of the works, but they receded mysteriouslybeyond the interlocking branches of the neighboring pines. Theyseemed, somehow, less imposing than formerly, and Wimperley andStoughton and the rest of them were a long way off. There came to himthe lullulant lapping of water along the smooth black side of theEvangeline. Presently he dropped into the abyss of sleep, dreamlessand profound.